


the hunter and the hunted

by kanradiary



Series: two halves of a whole : DMC modern AU [2]
Category: Devil May Cry, DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21392128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanradiary/pseuds/kanradiary
Summary: Vergil lifted a hand; along the floor his shadow crept, dipping over the curve of Dante’s neck. He dropped his hand.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante/Vergil (DmC)
Series: two halves of a whole : DMC modern AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554433
Kudos: 11





	the hunter and the hunted

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload with a new title. Loose sequel to [the human heart its hungry gorge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21392032).  
Please forgive any mistakes; I am unfamiliar with a good portion of canon.
> 
> Side note: ROFLOLOLOL I love semicolons.

Dante was asleep. He lay spread-eagle on the mattress, duvet kicked aside in a pile on the mahogany flooring beside him. The moon cast her pale light over him in streaks of white. Drool leaked out the corner of his mouth, as if in a child’s sleep.

His balcony doors were wide open, and thin wispy curtains fluttered in the chilly night breeze.

Reckless and foolish. Anyone could come in and kill him like this. Anyone could take what was rightfully Vergil’s. The thought was enough to send his blood boiling. It wasn’t as if he were unaware that there were others who might want to lay claim to Dante’s defeat. But he would not allow it.

Dante was his to surpass, and his only. He would stop at nothing to grind his smug face into the mud.

Vergil had rented an apartment adjacent to Dante’s a few weeks ago. His idiot brother had completely failed to notice, despite the fact that he’d spent three days getting the movers to rearrange the furniture. It was uncharacteristic of him to be this lax with his privacy and security, but Vergil supposed the years had changed Dante. It wasn’t surprising, yet something about it nagged at Vergil.

What was he to do if it turned out that Dante was a good-for-nothing bum after all? American currency did hold much more weight in Thailand than it did back home; that would explain Dante’s apparent moderate wealth.

From his own bedroom Vergil watched as Dante shifted and rolled about, failing to get comfortable. It was getting colder as night fell.

Vergil picked up the knife he always kept by his person and stalked over to his balcony, so close to Dante’s they were almost touching. Something uncomfortable prickled under his skin.

It was always like this whenever he thought about Dante - a mix of frustration and anger and irrational, overpowering fear. It made Vergil irritable. It made him feel too exposed. Too vulnerable.

He flung open the tinted glass doors and climbed over the railings, the sound of his invasion muted by his lack of footwear. For a moment he was frozen on the balcony, moonlight streaming through the open doors, casting his shadow long and stark against the muted interiors of Dante’s bedroom. The light grazed Dante’s unruly hair and turned it into silver.

Vergil lifted a hand; along the floor his shadow crept, dipping over the curve of Dante’s neck. He dropped his hand.

Deeper into the room he crept, silent footfalls too loud, too conscious of his every movement. His arms; his legs; his hands and feet - it felt as if he were moving through molasses. His blood pulsed under the bridge of his nose and along his cheekbones, as if the mere proximity to Dante were enough to give him a headache. The air was colder in Dante’s room, and it raised goosebumps along his exposed skin.

There was something almost perverse about watching Dante sleep without his knowing. He crouched by Dante’s mattress-turned-bed: arms resting on his burgundy sheets, face turned down to watch as Dante inhaled and exhaled in slow, languid breaths.

Vergil pressed the sharp edge of the knife to Dante’s neck. In his sleep he’d turned his head to nose into his pillow, neck exposed to all the world. Exposed to  _ Vergil. _

It was Vergil’s chance to get rid of his parasite of a brother, once and for all.

He pushed the knife in a fraction more, and drew it away. Blood welled up along the thin cut, red as Dante’s bedsheets. It was mesmerising, the dark beads of blood on Dante’s pale neck. As if in a trance, Vergil brushed it away, smearing the liquid in a jagged line over the soft skin, and Dante winced.

Shit.

“Wh- Brother?” Dante mumbled, slowly blinking sleep from his eyes. The digital clock on his nightstand glared 00:34 at Vergil in bright, glowing red.

Abruptly he stood, pulling the blanket up with him and flinging it over Dante as the other man squirmed and wriggled upon his bed. He was silent - perhaps Dante would pass this encounter off as a dazed midnight half-dream. Though why Dante might be dreaming of him was inconceivable. Vergil himself certainly had not dreamt of him in the past year.

The balcony window was as viable an exit as any other, but before Vergil could beat a hasty retreat, Dante’s arm shot out from under the thick blanket and grabbed at his leg. Vergil kicked him viciously with his other one.

“Ow! The fuck is wrong with you?! What are you doing in my house?! How did you even get in?!” Dante had sat up. He was glaring at Vergil now, eyes steely and cold.

It was too late to fight, and anyway Vergil had always hated being in the cold. Dante’s apartment, it seemed, did not have the heat turned up. It wasn’t as if Dante needed it, but it meant that Vergil was two degrees away from shivering.

“Let go,” he muttered, reaching for threatening and falling woefully short.

Dante’s eyes were boring holes into the side of his face. He stared out past the flapping balcony curtains, into the warm glow of his own apartment. The hand wrapped around his ankle burned with heat; Dante’s blood ran as hot as it always had.

“Sit down,” Dante said, quiet in the half-darkness. Vergil glanced over - he was watching Vergil, his face set in a mask of pensive consideration. It was foreign, this uncharacteristic gentleness coming from Dante of all people.

Vergil was consumed, inexplicably, with the urge to run. All of a sudden he wanted to be anywhere but in this apartment, anywhere that wasn’t near Dante, anywhere that didn’t force him to feel such confusing, conflicting emotions. But he would prove himself better than that. He was Vergil - he could handle this situation, and better than Dante would, at that.

He forced the stiffness from his shoulders and lowered himself slowly. His sleep shorts rode up a little, and the skin of his thighs raised with goosebumps at the coldness of the wooden flooring.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Dante had not removed his hand from Vergil’s ankle. His skin was scalding in its warmth, or perhaps that was Vergil. He was too conscious of the space between the two of them, or lack thereof. Dante was close enough Vergil could see the stray hairs at the top of his head, bunched loosely like thin nylon lines, glowing in the dim light.

He watched Dante watching him, his eyes the same strange shade of blue-grey that Vergil could never really place. Since the last time they’d met a week ago, when they’d traded punches and shouted at each other till someone banged on the wall next door, Dante had shaved.

Vergil found to his horror that he quite missed the ruffled, unkempt look Dante had had a few years ago. He pushed himself to his feet; Dante watched him, still silent, still with that awfully thoughtful look on his face. It scared Vergil.

What was Dante thinking? Why weren’t they already yelling and fighting?

“What did you come here for, dear brother?” Dante, for once, didn’t sound sarcastic. He sounded oddly-  _ fond _ .

The truth was that Vergil himself didn’t know why he’d decided to make the leap across the gap between their balconies, why he’d entered Dante’s house, why he’d felt the urge to touch and hurt and maim. Who knows why the moon rises when the sun sets? He stared at the top of Dante’s head, his evasive answer on the tip of his tongue.  _ I wanted to see you. Touch you. Make sure you’re real. _

“That’s none of your concern,” he muttered instead, not looking at Dante.

“I’m kind of  _ bleeding _ here, buddy?” There was a touch of anger in Dante’s voice now, and Vergil was relieved to be back in familiar territory. He grinned.

“That’s your problem,  _ dear brother _ ,” he said, and left the same way he came, ignoring Dante’s lacklustre protests. He made sure to lock the balcony doors and pull the blackout curtains shut after entering the privacy of his own apartment.

Dante’s blood was still smeared across the tips of his fingers. He watched as it set into the lines of his skin and dried, turning from fresh red into a hard, coagulated dark brown.


End file.
